could see the blue smoke curling from each house we passed.  We knew that venison steak, hot biscuit, and odorous coffee would soon grace their tables.  We had not had the venison, for the “gude mon” holds to the letter of the law which protects deer here, but we begrudged no one anything; we were having exactly what we wanted.  We jogged along happily, if slowly, for I must explain to you that Chub is quite the laziest horse in the State, and Bill, his partner, is so old he stands like a bulldog.  He is splay-footed and sway-backed, but he is a beloved member of our family, so I vented my spite on Chub, and the willow descended periodically across his black back, I guess as much from force of habit as anything else.  But his hide is thick and his memory short, so we broke no record that day.

We drove on through the fresh beauty of the morning, and when the sun was straight overhead we came to the last good water we could expect before we reached Mrs. Louderer’s; so we stopped for lunch.  In Wyoming quantity has a great deal more to do with satisfaction than does quality; after half a day’s drive you won’t care so much what it is you’re going to eat as you will that there is enough of it.  That is a lesson I learned long ago; so our picnic was real.  There were no ants in the pie, but that is accounted for by there being no pie.  Our road had crossed the creek, and we were resting in the shade of a quaking-asp grove, high up on the sides of the Bad Land hills.  For miles far below lay the valley through which we had come.

Farther on, the mountains with their dense forests were all wrapped in the blue haze of the melancholy days.  Soon we quitted our enchanted grove whose quivering, golden leaves kept whispering secrets to us.

About three o’clock we came down out of the hills on to the bench on which the Louderer ranch is situated.  Perhaps I should explain that this country is a series of huge terraces, each terrace called a bench.  I had just turned into the lane that leads to the house when a horseman came cantering toward me.  “Hello!” he saluted, as he drew up beside the wagon.  “Goin’ up to the house?  Better not.  Mrs. Louderer is not at home, and there’s no one there but Greasy Pete.  He’s on a tear; been drunk two days, I’m tellin’ you.  He’s full of mischief.  ’T ain’t safe around old Greasy.  I advise you to go some’eres else.”  “Well,” I asked, “where can I go?” “Danged if I know,” he replied, “’lessen it ’s to Kate Higbee’s.  She lives about six or seven miles west.  She ain’t been here long, but I guess you can’t miss her place.  Just jog along due west till you get to Red Gulch ravine, then turn north for a couple of miles.  You’ll see her cabin up against a cedar ridge.  Well, so ’long!” He dug his spurs into his cayuse’s side and rode on.